Tomcat
by pulsifer
Summary: Post DH. After his death, Voldemort wakes up in Crookshank's body. Hilarity and romance ensue. Rated M for some mature situations.


_A/N: this is as ridiculous as you can get (I mean, the alternate title I had in mind was "Tomshanks"). But I will actually try to spin a screwball romance out of this premise, believe it or not. Enjoy!_

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He never thought much of cats when he was alive. They were adequately clever animals, well-groomed and silent, but since they possessed no superior magic that would grant him power or immortality, he simply looked the other way. He did not even let Nagini eat them, since the poor thing usually choked on their fur.

He vaguely remembered one lazy feline with a lame foot in the Slytherin common room back in the day. The animal in question was owned by a lonely fifth year girl with an overbite. And that was the extent of it. He never so much as petted one.

Had he known that he would one day inhabit this lowly quadruped's body, he would have done his best to destroy every single cat in the magical world. But how could he have foreseen this humiliation?

Not only had he been unceremoniously shoved inside the unsteady frame of a fat, orange cat, but it seemed that this particular _puss_ belonged to – well wasn't this just _bloody_ perfect – the Mudblood.

* * *

Death was a very ordinary thing, despite the fact that men did so many extraordinary things to avoid it. Tom found out on his own that dying was no more interesting than peeling a banana. He was quite _literally_ peeled of his own skin and blood and bones and …rendered a fetus again. Then there was a sort of grey light, like the slow blinking of an oil lamp, and then he was crowded into _this_.

He woke up inside a bloody cat.

The first sight he saw was a pair of comfortable black shoes. Plain and unattractive. When he arched his head back – which he discovered was much more difficult to perform as a feline – he saw a pair of dark stockings. He traveled further north and hit upon the hem of a school skirt. So far, so good. But then he lost his way when he was assaulted by a forest of bushy brown hair.

He almost gave a cry, which sounded like a pitiful _meow_.

He was staring at the stupid, beaming face of Harry Potter's most insufferable ally. Hermione Granger. The clever Mudblood who had eluded his Death Eaters for an entire _year_ with her silly spells and contraptions.

"What's the matter, Crookshanks? Is it a tummy ache again?" she cooed fondly as she bent down towards him. He could see a spatter of brown freckles on her giant nose.

Tom wanted to flee. He was petrified. But the absurdity of the situation kept him rooted to the spot.

And furthermore – _Crookshanks_?

 _That_ was the name of her insipid cat? This was the most dignified sobriquet she could come up with? He was going to be sick all over her shoes.

Granger quickly scooped him up in her arms. Tom almost fainted. He wanted to protest, but her grip was strong and he felt lightheaded with shock.

He was being lifted up by this – this _horrible_ girl.

He fit snugly in her arms. Tom meowed mournfully and struggled in vain against her hold. She was cloyingly warm and she smelled like ink and liquorish.

"Oh, come now, stop making a fuss," she murmured into his pelt, running her fingers up and down his back, which he found absolutely _revolting_. "We'll go to bed soon, I promise."

Tom growled angrily – or at least did his very best impression – and snapped one of his paws at her. He managed to snag his claw into her jumper.

"Crookshanks! Behave!" she remonstrated, beating his paw lightly.

Tom did not let that stop him. He pounced on her with his other paw, aiming for her face, but sadly only managing to scratch at her collar.

Granger dropped him angrily on the carpet. "Fine! Be that way, you silly shrew!"

Tom spat at her feet, although whether he did it to antagonize her or because he felt a ticklish sensation in the back of his throat is up for debate.

Granger huffed with indignation but otherwise ignored him and went back to her reading. She had several books sprawled on the sofa in the Common Room.

Tom moved away from her in a queasy stupor. This wasn't a regular Common Room. He had been Head Boy, after all, and he recognized the quarters, even from this humiliating angle.

What had become of him? Why was he here? Was he dead? Was this _hell_? Did the Muggles have it right, after all, and there actually was some bearded man in the sky who meted out justice? If so, surely, even his substantial crimes could not warrant a fate so cruel.

No, this was a _ghastly_ joke. He would wake up soon. He would wake up and he'd – he'd probably be a corpse, or some kind of thing in-between. But anything would be preferable to this.

Tom gnashed his teeth which now had a strange, needle-like quality. His tongue felt rough against his lips. He was tasting cat hairs. His own _bloody_ cat hairs.

Someone would _pay_ for this indiscretion. But who?

He turned his head towards the Mudblood and glared at her with all his might. His fur bristled on the ridge of his back.

Granger was oblivious to this war cry. She dangled her foot from the edge of the sofa, her fingers fiddling with her tie, absorbed in her reading.

Oh, he'd pluck her eyes out! He'd make her suffer -!

He was interrupted from these embittered thoughts when he felt a strange commotion in his stomach. It felt like old machinery coming to life, like rusted cogs churning in his bowels. Suddenly, all his willpower drained from his whiskers. He – oh _fuck_ – he really had to go–

* * *

Hermione was startled by the long, plaintive wail. Crookshanks was dragging his feet around the room in a rather comedic fashion, as if he had something nasty to conceal. His expression was turgid.

"Oh dear, you're having troubles with your tummy again, aren't you? Let me get the syrup."

.

* * *

It was just his luck that she darted into the bathroom and left the door open as she surveyed the medicine cabinet.

Tom was guided by a feral instinct – disgusting, yet useful – which told him that his salvation lay somewhere beyond that door. He scurried into the bathroom and followed the smell of his own fluids.

Voldemort had devised many tortures in his lifetime, but he had never considered "cat litter" as a possibility. He bloody well _should_ have. He sank down in the sand and did his business, unabashed, unashamed, completely at the mercy of his bowels.

Granger looked down at him from her great height and a small smile etched on her lips. "Good boy, Crookshanks."

The Mudblood was watching him defecate. She called him a _good boy_. And he was a cat. Lord Voldemort had officially hit rock bottom. And this was only the beginning.


End file.
